


cherub child

by thefudge



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Begging, F/M, Foot Fetish, Humiliation, Michael is a sub, Power Dynamics, birthday gift for anon, michael said step on me, ost: toto - africa (ironically and unironically), request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:08:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21576583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: He falls on his knees before her."I have proven myself tonight," he begins, pathetically, she might add. "I deserve - I want -""What?" she asks sharply.
Relationships: Cordelia Foxx | Cordelia Goode/Michael Langdon
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	cherub child

**Author's Note:**

> this is a belated birthday gift to that one anon on tumblr who wanted a slice of this pairing for their birthday (https://thefudge.tumblr.com/post/188116027168/dear-doctor-fudge-my-birthday-is-coming-soon-and ) umm yeah, a month later, but here it is! hope you like it. i'm way too busy this semester for anything longer or more substantial, but i gotta say this pairing is a delight to write for, so who knows, i might return. 
> 
> (also, i'm assuming someone has already written a variation of this, because Michael was soooo obvious around Cordelia, my God. anyway, enjoy!)

Michael deposits the cold body at her feet like a cat bringing her master a pretty little mouse.

Cordelia tilts her head imperceptibly. All her movements are elegantly bled of emotion. She examines the scuffs on Grand Chancellor Ariel's expensive shoes. She darts her own foot forward and prods him lightly with the sole, making the dead man's skull sway back and forth comically. Little about death is truly dignified, she's come to learn. We all die foolishly, in the end.

She finally deigns to look at the young boy who has brought her the offering, his honeyed locks flaming in the low light of her study.

He will die foolishly too, she thinks. It's a pity, so much talent gone to waste.

She runs a thumb down the inside of her wrist, fingering the lace cuff. Michael's eyes latch onto the fingers' caress, back and forth, almost as if she were touching his own skin. 

Cordelia smiles only slightly. He is so starved. 

"What about the other warlocks?" she asks lightly.

Michael parts his lips. He smiles nervously. "Sitting ducks. I'm going to take them all out, one by one. Just say the word, and Hawthorne will soon be nothing but a graveyard."

Cordelia moves her hand to her throat where a scorpion's tail, dark gemstone, encircles her pulse, gleaming like teeth. Michael watches the way she traces her nail down the stone's face. He wants to be the finger and the stone, he wants to be the casing of her throat. 

He is absorbed with these small details, these small instances of matriarchal power, heady and intoxicating. 

"Good. Very good. I'm sure you see the necessity of our actions."

Michael puffs out his chest. "I do."

He doesn't. But he does what he's told. For now. 

She smiles warmly in approval. "You've done well tonight, my child."

Michael thrums with pleasure. He feels the blessing of the sun, bathes in it. His blue eyes darken with feral need for more. 

"How well?" he asks, needy and petulant. 

Cordelia leans back against her desk. "That depends. It's easy to begin. The hard part is to remain consistent and not stray from your path." 

Michael takes a step forward. "I won't, My Supreme." 

Cordelia hums. She knows exactly what power that title exercises on him, how he craves to be her heir. His devotion is diluted with the treacherous need to surpass her, even as he prostrates himself. 

Which he does.

He falls on his knees before her.

"I have proven myself tonight," he begins, _pathetically_ , she might add. "I deserve - I want -"

"What?" she asks sharply.

"A reward," he says, breathless and boyish.

Sometimes, Cordelia thinks he is only doing this - all of this, future world domination included - for the "treats" he gets. A naughty child reaching for the cookie jar. He is hopelessly easy to read and dangerously unpredictable, at the same time. 

"A reward," she echoes. "My kind words to you are your reward. You think you deserve more?"

Michael licks his lips. He cranes his neck. The neckerchief at his throat irritates him. The good boy uniform is a fraudulent skin he wears, but it fits him quite well. "I do." 

"If you truly believe you are worthy, you must say the word," she replies softly.

Michael swallows thickly. Yes, the word. As she has often told him, she cannot say it _for_ him. 

He rests his hands on the polished floor, nails scratching the surface. " _Please_."

"Please what?" 

"Please...let me..." 

Cordelia smooths the front of her dress, fingers outlining the curve of her thigh under the heavy fabric. "A future Supreme does not stutter so unbecomingly." 

"Please..."

Cordelia tuts. "Are you ashamed of asking for what you want?" 

He shakes his head. Beads of sweat crown his forehead. 

It's not that.

She knows.

He loves begging. He wants to protract it. To prolong the humiliation. That's all there is to it.

So when he finally comes into his own, it'll be all the more glorious. 

A glutton for punishment. But biding his time. 

"Please, let me clean - let me - lick - _please_."

There's a scratchy, demonic echo in his voice, chalk on blackboard, but she doesn't flinch. 

She lifts one eyebrow. "Pathetic, wormy boy. Enunciate." 

Michael exults in the epithets. His hands scrape at the hem of her gown. "Please...let me clean you. Let me honor your feet with my...unworthy tongue." 

Cordelia makes a face. "That's not much better. But at least you know how unworthy you are." 

"Y-yes, I am."

"Darling wretch."

"Yes."

"Vermin."

" _Yes,"_ Michael groans shamelessly. 

"What are you waiting for?" 

She lifts her foot only an inch, and that is all the permission that Michael needs. 

Cordelia must admit that the sight of him, cherub child, splendid golden, rotten to the core, licking the lint off her shoe, pink tongue lapping eagerly, devouring the minute dust, gently taking out her foot and darting the same tongue between her toes, lovingly, hungrily, soaking up the sweat and perfume of her flesh, is not a bad sight at all. 

She allows herself a small sigh of pleasure as his fingers come around her bare ankle and apply pressure. Mouth over her heel, sucking with eyes half-closed. She can see the tent in his trousers, can see how much he wants to drag her foot and rub it against his hardness. But he won't. He would never profane his mistress like that. Still, she likes to watch his animality strain against the uniform. 

_Look at you, Satan's Son,_ Cordelia thinks. _You don't care a whit about your father. You just want a mother. To fuck, to love, to kill. To fuck you, to love you, to kill you. Yes, I can be all of these things, my sweet baby, my little coffin in the making._

She lets her head fall back as he laps at her skin with the desperate suckling motion of a cub that has not yet been weaned. 

Yes, we all die foolishly.

But if the day comes when she dies with his supplicant mouth at her feet, she will have done something right. 


End file.
